


Brief Histories

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics written for various requests on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maglor, The High King

"The King will see you now." 

Two supplicants are ushered into his study by the page, who hovers at the door, expectant. They are Mithrim, he can tell at a glance - partially from their stature, but primarily from the geometric patterns on their thick woolen cloaks. “Please, sit.” He has learned, over time, that such familiarity is likely to put them at ease. He calls up his older brother’s voice and expression before continuing. Always the charmer, their Nelyo.

"And know that I am not your king. I claim no authority over your people, except those of you who have chosen to join yourself to the Noldor - excuse me, the Golodhrim.” He is not, in the technical sense, anyone’s king, having forbidden an official coronation until more time has passed. But with the arrival of Ñolofinwë’s host, Curufinwë had judged it expedient that he adopt the title. 

The taller of the two speaks first. “Begging pardon, your majesty, but it is the Golodhrim that our message concerns. You are aware, of course, that the boundaries of your settlements on this lake are of some significance to our people.” Maglor nods, politely. He is not an expert on Þindarin culture, but his wife, Mithrim as well, has taught him many of their rituals.

The messenger continues. “There are various traditions, associated with this alignment of the stars, that are commonly practiced on the shore.” 

"And your request…?" 

"The western shore, your majesty.” Her face is grave.

Another day, another crisis. Hopefully, Ñolofinwë’s desire for peaceful coexistence with the local populace will outweigh his resentment. “Very well. I will send a message to my uncle’s host.” 

He dips his quill and begins to draft his letter, not without a wistful glance at the harp in the near corner of the room.


	2. Fëanáro and Indis

"Fëanáro." 

"Lady Indis." 

She seems, to him, less hurt than vaguely confused. Perhaps she has grown used to his coldness. He refuses to address her as stepmother - she will have no part in raising him. And the Noldor have but one Queen. 

"Your father bids you dine with us." 

"So he has informed me." It is a struggle to keep his hands still at his sides. 

"And yet, you are here."

He turns his head to both sides, as if inspecting the room, and arches an eyebrow. “Apparently.” 

"May I ask why?"

Because I will have to put on another mask for the assembled lords. Because my head will ache with the light and my breath will grow quick, and ragged. Because my father’s eyes will fill with sorrow when he sees the fluttering movements of my hands. Because no one will mention my mother’s name. “Because I do not wish to dine with you.” Her face is unreadable, but he hopes that she is insulted. 

"We must all make sacrifices." Dismissive, ignorant, and sanctimonious. Only to be expected, he supposes, but it stings.

"Then tell me about your sacrifice. How painful it was for you to sigh your days away in Valimar, with no care in the world but to pine poetically. How very hard it must be to be beloved of my people for returning their king to the realm of the living. To be honored and exalted and rewarded for murdering my mother.” He realizes, suddenly, that he is shouting, and takes a moment to breath. “Go on. Tell me.” 

He does not expect her to raise her voice in turn. “I want to go to this dinner precisely as much as you do.” 

"Grown tired of being fawned over?" 

"I have grown tired of acting. Of controlling every movement, every gesture, because I will be pilloried for the slightest mistake. I will freely admit that the more arcane points of Noldorin etiquette are strange to me, but to think that one mistake will be held up as a reason to invalidate my presence here -" And she stops abruptly, covering her mouth with her hands. 

For a moment, he is speechless. She cannot understand, of course. It is not even worthy of comparison. But he thinks that perhaps he will attend the feast after all. This once.


	3. Fëanáro and Nerdanel

The structure has expanded beyond the confines of the workshop to encompass two toolsheds, a good portion of the back garden, and a relatively large oak tree. It is draped in white blankets, apparently to approximate the Mindon. 

"And you’re quite sure it’s safe?” 

Nerdanel abandons the knot with which she has been helping Macalaurë and takes his hands in hers. They are still covered with stone dust, and she is smiling like a child. “Of course it is, Fëanáro. Don’t tell me you never made a blanket palace as a child?” 

"I - " 

"Well, of course you wouldn’t have." She leans up to kiss him, quickly. Her lips also taste of marble. "You grew up in a real one!" 

"I did have blocks, though. I once built an accurate scale replica of Manwë and Varda’s halls upon Taniquetil. I even made the snow of cotton-wool." 

"And let me guess, you kicked it over afterwards." Her tone is disapproving, but the smile has not left her eyes.

"Well, that’s half the fun." 

She raises her eyebrow a fraction of an inch. 

"Alright, all the fun. In this particular case." She is twining her hands in his hair, and he is toying with the end of her braid, when a shout interrupts them.

"Atar! Amil! Come and see!" 

"I do think they want us to go inside." 

"I’m sorry, children, but I don’t think I’m dressed for a court visit." 

"Aaaataaaar." Macalaurë is using his already impressive vocal range to full affect, and little Tyelkormo is tugging at his trouser-leg. 

"Very well then. Show me what you’ve built."


	4. Azaghâl

The girl steps in cold, dark water and cries out. “Forgive me, Zirakûl. I did not hear the sound of a river before me.” 

The old woman raises her head, slowly. Her long, grey beard is braided into a thousand smaller streams, and hangs in the black pool. She does not speak, but lights one candle, and then others, until the cavern appears to be lit by pale stars, reflecting off the surface of the water and the living crystals growing from the ceiling and the walls. “This is still water, child. There is a current, but it is many miles below. Small wonder you did not hear it.” 

"I thought this was the deepest point in Gabilgathol." 

"The oldest, but not the deepest. There are places where the Khazad do not go, and rock shifts slowly and silently. Come. Sit." 

The girl lowers her mask over her face and turns towards the old woman. The pebbled shore shifts beneath her legs, but she will not lose her balance. The words from here on are ritual. “I return. I seek my beginning and my ending.” The garnet eyes of the mask flicker in the candle light. 

"Give me your hand."

It is so silent that the girl can hear her own heartbeat. She cannot hear the Zirakûl’s, until bony fingers circle her wrists and her hands are thrust into the freezing lake. “Ai!” She cannot help but cry out from the cold. 

The Zirakûl appears untroubled. “This is the cave of the mother. Mahal, in their aspect as the creator, awakened our first ancestor in this place. This is the birthplace of your kin, past and future. This is the home, O king-that-has-been, O king-to-be, to which you have again returned. Know you this?” 

"I know." 

"And is the gift of blood freely given?" 

"It is not given but returned." Her hands are so numb that she hardly feels the obsidian knife as it slices into her palm. She watches dark liquid splatter upon the stone as if from very far away. 

"You leave this place, then, until you have once more passed. There is once more an Azaghâl."


	5. Curufin and the twins

The lands to the south and east of Himlad are thick with forests. Curufinwë can, at times, very nearly make out the sky through layers of branches. The new leaves shine like emeralds, shot through by the hidden sun. His horse’s hooves leave deep impressions in the thick moss, which rises from the dirt in soft, deep mounds of and coats the rocks in small, feathery tendrils. He can only see one set of hoof-prints ahead of him, though there are three riders. Somehow, Ambarussa have contrived to leave no trace of their movements. Even last year’s leaves, brown and red and crackling at the slightest touch, remain whole and silent beneath their feet. 

Curufinwë lifts himself up from his inspection of the underlayer to note that the baying of the hounds has grown distant. “Brothers? Tyelkormo! Are you there?” He is a competent hunter, but no expert, and in any case prefers hawking. It is likely that they have spotted their quarry and outpaced him. 

"Not to worry, brother." He thinks he sees a flash of red in the foliage. 

"We wouldn’t abandon you." The voice is identical, but this time it comes from behind him. 

"Well, perhaps for a bit." 

“Everyone gets lost here.” 

"It’s nothing to be ashamed of." 

"I am not lost, merely …delayed. I have seen some of these varieties of moss nowhere else in Beleriand, and - "

"Oh, so you’re a botanist now.” 

"Ambarussa! That was rude." 

"Well, he’s not." And then they are both standing before him, dressed in the manner of the wood-elves in simple greens and browns. 

The older twin, now visible as such, shuffles his feet and rubs his hands together. “I apologize for Ambarussa. Truly. We had noticed your absence and turned back to find you, and seeing you so distracted, I cautioned him not to disturb you, lest we break your concentration.” 

"Sycophant." 

"Imp." 

“Children.” 

"Curvo!" This last is expressed in indignant unison, and Curufinwë takes an involuntary step backwards. 

"Perhaps it would be best if we rejoined the others."


	6. Zimrahil and the Zigûr

Black marble is not found in Anadûnê. It must be quarried at the edges of the Eastern desert, and taken by ship to Rómenna, and thence, by cart, to the capitol. Each massive block will take 15 days to reach Arminalêth, and thousands will be required before the temple is finished.

"And you say you have consulted with our ministers of the treasury in the development of your plans for …that?" She gestures to the rising foundation with a disdainful flick of her wrist. The pointed sheaths on her finger-tips - gold and ruby - catch the afternoon sun. 

The Zigûr looks down from the horizon and into her eyes. His dark, long-fingered hands rest on the porphyry railing. “Surely you do not suggest, dear lady, that expense can be a barrier, in the service of the Giver of Freedom. What cost is too great, in treasure or in blood, to express our infinite devotion and surety of future service to Him?” He raises his head again, piously, at the speech, but the corners of his mouth betray a sardonic smile. 

Zimrahil recoils imperceptibly at the endearment. “Our devotion may be infinite, Zigûr, but our funds are not, and your lord has certainly succeeded in liberating us from them.” She pauses, the noise of the work making all conversation momentarily impossible, and then continues. Her voice is softer, and more sweet. “Besides, I had always believed that we could serve best serve Him by bringing about the destruction of his gaolers. Our shipbuilders cannot feed their families on piety.” 

She can see the impression of the Zigûr’s fingers in the stone. “It is not the shipbuilders, or the sailors or the merchants, who whisper of your improprieties - and your husband’s - over silver plates, to the music of Elvish harps. You are too great to have any fear of unsubstantiated rumor, but your servant has heard -“

"There is an army massing in the Andustar." 

After a moment, he carefully closes his mouth. Zimrahil does not know if he is more shocked that her spies have outpaced his, or that she has dared to interrupt him, but she savors the moment. “Though they are little more than a militia, we do not have the force on land to challenge them. And you would spend the last of our coin on monuments.” 

"My Queen, you mistake me. If your armies cannot reclaim the rebellious province, it is of paramount importance that they do not rise."

The setting sun shines off the half-completed walls, creating the appearance of leaping flames. She nods.   
"And so they must fear us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zimrahil = Tar-Miriel 
> 
> Zigûr = Sauron


	7. Finrod and the Master Smith

They built the forges first. Quite naturally - they will need to make more tools before they begin the other work. And it is just as natural that they establish themselves in the upper levels of the caves, so that the smoke can more easily escape the workrooms. The elves, perforce, must dig deeper, but it is not as if they lack for space, even with their unnatural height. 

And so it was with great surprise that the Master Smith received their latest messenger. “And you would have us work faster?”

She has already set aside her hammer and the iron rod she had been shaping, still glowing a dull orange from the forge. There is a sudden clamor of metal on stone as the other Dwarves hurry to do the same. The elf casts his eyes about the room and gulps nervously. “It …it is only … we need air, and sunlight, and it is so very dark in the caves.”

“The advantages of living in natural cave systems are many. Lighting is not among them. I had assumed that your ûzbad was aware of this.” And it was not as if the caves by the river Narog were particularly deep.

The elf took a moment to puzzle over the unfamiliar word. “Oh, you mean Lord Finrod? P …perhaps you would wish to speak to him instead?”

Elven facial expressions were mostly unreadable to the Master Smith, but even she could recognize the tone of pure desperation. “Very well.”

“His hours of audience are between –“

“We will receive him in the first hour of the stars.” The elf may have made some objection, but it was lost in his rush for the door.

The Lord did come, in the end. He was wearing jewels to suit a formal occasion, which pleased the Master Smith. Except for a rather elegant pair of earrings, small peridot studs carved in the perfect semblance of coiled serpents, all of it was far inferior to Dwarven craftsmanship, which pleased the Master Smith even more.

‘If the living conditions are truly untenable, perhaps you could expand upwards into the opposite bank?”

Finrod demurs. “It would rather defeat the purpose of our fortifications. And our masons are more used to skilled work than excavation – though I am sure, given the present necessity, they will prove adaptable.”

The Master Smith adjusts her necklace. The golden discs clink against each other, and the dragon’s-eye rubies catch and hold the dim light. She can see him lean forward, barely noticeably, perhaps trying to make out the faint khuzdul inscription around the rims. She tilts a disc up to admire it, and his eyes widen. Surprise or admiration? “I assure you, Finrod-ûzbad, excavation is indeed skilled labor. But I can forgive your ignorance, seeing as you have yet to undertake it.”

He has the sense to apologize, at least, and assure her that he intended no insult. “I would not think to demean the great mansions of Belegost and Nogrod, of which my own halls must be, perforce, a humble imitation.” He pauses, as if waiting to be corrected, and then continues. “The construction of semi-permanent shelters is, I think, inadvisable. We will tunnel parallel to the current development. I will have the plans delivered to you on the morrow.” He bows, with as much grace as can be mustered in the low-ceilinged room.

The translator hovers about the door, afterwards. “I am sorry that such a meeting was necessary, for an artisan of your rank. I assure you, his words were kindly met, but if you do not wish to speak with him again – “

She smiles. “No, no. I’ll be quite interested to see what he does. He seems to fancy himself a hewer of caves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uzbâd = Khûzdul for lord, or commander


	8. Maglor and his teacher

The curtains were pulled tight over the window in Macalaurë’s room. He has weighted the lower hems, and lined the crack in the door with rags so that no trace of treelight – always painfully bright, but in Valimar almost overpowering – could shine through. Even so, he is woken by the insistent bells.

He sings a wordless snatch of his latest composition, over and over, as he sweeps the small, spare house and polishes the harps with linseed oil. A door creaks, and he smiles slightly.

“Master Nuhuinon. I did not know you were awake.”

“It is already the first mingling, Macalaurë. You should be ready for your lessons.” His voice is very gentle.

“Oh, I am sorry.” He plays a quick, bright melody one-handed on the strings of the instrument nearest, taps his fingers on the body of a hanging mandolin. “I did mean to start earlier, of course. Only the bells make it so hard to tell time. I never can seem to count. It’s the echoing.” 

Nuhuinon begins to slice a pear. “I manage it. My great-grandnephew, who is all of five years old, manages it. I would think that with your ear, it would not present an insurmountable challenge.” 

"That’s just it, though - you have a trained ear, your nephew has a trained ear. You’re used to it. To me it is cacophonous, a symphony of infinite disorder, silvery and unending" - another trill on the harp - "shall I go on?" 

"As long as you like, provided you do not expect me to listen." 

"The real shame is the waste, of course." Macalaurë moves closer and lifts a slice of the pear from his hands. His own fingers rest lightly on Nuhuinon’s sleeve. "Large bells, small bells, every tone imaginable, and hardy anyone composes for them." 

"An ambitious project." Nuhuinon speaks distantly. He appears more interested in the movement of Macalaurë’s hands. 

"Technical challenges." Laughing, he breaks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Macalaurë = Maglor


	9. Fëanáro and Finwë

Fëanáro is only now beginning to sleep regularly. He still vanishes into the forge for days on end, refusing to touch the plates of food pushed under the door by nervous courtiers, or disappears from Tirion altogether, but his comings and goings have been on the whole less frequent. He will not eat with the family, but at least he eats. There are no more of the terrifying, weeks-long silences. His behavior, if not entirely conventional, is at least a near approximation.

There is no particular reason why Finwë should be standing at the foot of his bed, deep in Telperien’s hours, clutching at the posts with an expression of muted terror.  
Fëanáro has drawn his heavily-embroidered curtains against the light. A pale silver band snakes across the floor and bisects a blueprint tacked up on the far well, otherwise the room is black as a night in the outer lands. He sleeps with his head curled nearly to his knees and his loose hair poking above the blankets.

“Fëanáro?”

“A …atar?” He spits out a strand of hair, stretches, pulls himself into a sitting position. “It’s the middle of the night,”

“Almost morning.”

“I was sleeping.”

“I could tell.”

“You’ll wake the child.”

“He sleeps even more soundly than you do.”

“The first, I am sure, of many accomplishments in which he shall surpass me.”

“I didn’t mean - Manwë and Varda, Fëanáro, he’s an infant.” 

“I never implied otherwise. And I can’t see what Manwë and Varda have to do with it, unless –“

“I didn’t come here to argue.” And if Finwë is able to mask the lingering fear in his voice, he cannot hide his exhuastion. He sits down on the edge of the bed and turns towards Fëanáro, who quickly looks away.

“I’m sorry, Atar.” He reaches out to touch Finwë’s shoulder. He leaves his hand hovering in the air. “Tell me, what has happened?”

“I needed to see you.” 

“You see me every day.” Fëanáro begins to pull his hand away. Finwë moves to take hold of the wrist, his fingers on the pulse.

Fëanáro thinks he can hear his own heartbeat. Finwë is still breathing heavily.

“Atar. You’re scared.” He is suddenly bolt-upright. His eyes widen. He is trying very hard not to move.

Neither of them speak.

“I had a dream about the outer lands.”

“I have dreams about them, sometimes. From what Ammë told me, before – they were beautiful, she said. Bright with stars.” The words come too quickly. “She told me about the lake, and the shadows beneath the trees, the rain and the wind in the rushes.” Fëanáro is shaking.

Finwë embraces him. He startles, pulls away. Finwë adopts the expression he has come to recognize as hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t …don’t. It’s alright, I understand. Cuiviénen was beautiful, yes, but we left for a reason. The dark ones, the disappearances. They’re tales for children, now. That’s good. Because I left, Fëanáro, so that my children would never have to fear them.”

“Nor do you, Atar. You’re here, you’re safe.” His hands flutter in the air indecisively. After a moment, it occurs to him to wrap his arms around Finwë’s neck.

“Not always.” His palms are flat on Fëanáro’s back. Finwë presses down, slightly. He seems not entirely sure Fëanáro will be there when he lets go.

After some time, the band of silver turns to gold.


	10. Fëanáre and Nerdanel

Fëanáre has always slept like a small child, not deeply, but curled up at the edge of the mattress with her chin tucked to her knees. The heavy blankets are tangled in her fingers, and when she feels them lifting, she clings tighter and whimpers at the sudden absence of pressure. 

"Mmffghm, Nerdanel -" There is a pause of several seconds between wakefulness and recognition. "Nerdanel?" 

"Who else? Go back to sleep." 

She pulls the covers over her face and burrows further in. “It’s late.”

"Hence my previous advice." 

"Why -" 

"Fëanáre, please, don’t-" 

“Why now?” 

Nerdanel carefully loosens a section of blankets and arranges them around herself. Smooths the pillows and slowly unbraids her hair. “I was cold.” 

"Are the hypocausts not sufficient? I can look at them in the morning." 

"The furnace is empty. If you must know" 

"I am gratified to know you prefer my company to shoveling coal in the dead of night." 

"Always." Nerdanel brushes away a few strands of hair and, lightly, kisses the nape of her neck. "You’re much less difficult." 

"Really?"

It has been a long time since they last laughed together. The muscles in Nerdanel’s throat feel slightly sore, from disuse. 

"Perhaps not. Cheaper, though. Easier to transport in large quantities. And cleaner. Well - most of the time."

"So say you, who must have spent half your life coated in stone dust." Fëanáre lifts herself onto her elbows. "Has anyone ever told you that you are positively mercenary?" 

"Many times." 

"Callous?" 

'I prefer 'practical'.” 

Fëanáre begins to stretch her legs, her arms, her back, resting her head against Nerdanel’s collarbone. “Beautiful?” 

"Only you, love." 

Her breathing is light and quick. “I still don’t know, though. Why you came back to me.” 

"I never left." 

"I mean - you know what I mean. Here, with us, together." 

Nerdanel pulls her a little bit closer. “I told you, Fëanáre. I was cold.”


	11. Míriel and Rúmil

The city that would be Tirion grew around the artisan’s quarter – small surprise. They were Tatyar, still, before they built their new home in the Calacirya, and they dug forges and laid reed cloth to cover their crafting benches before quarrying the first pale stones. There was no cold, no dark to guard against (though the priests grumbled at the lack of stars), and an eternity to plan. Amulets carved of strange new woods lay in heaps in the marketplace, polished gems, tools and garlands of living flowers and bolts of bright cloth.

But the first trade to arise in that new city was in masks.

“It would be easier for you if you wore one.”

“Are you trying to convince me?” Rúmil began to unknot his hair with long, careful fingers. “You too, dear one? I expected better.”

“I am making a statement of fact.”

“And you would have me believe you meant nothing by it. This is a poor attempt at guile, even by your admittedly low standards.”

They sat beneath a hawthorn tree, on a hill overlooking the beginnings of a main square. The air was filled with clouds of white flowers and the faint odor of rotting meat. The grass there grew in long and reasonably pliant stalks, which Míriel was weaving together with the fingers of her left hand. “Would you still object if I called it rhetoric, as you teach your students? Assuming, of course, that I intended to persuade you to wear one of those absurd masks. Which I didn’t. I only said it would be easier if you did, and that even you can’t argue against.

“I had thought that one implies the other. Unless, of course, you do not want my life to be made easier.”

“A lost cause, I’m afraid.”

Míriel did not smile when she spoke. Rúmil did. “Do my ears deceive me? Is this my cousin, the eternal optimist? It is well that I can barely see, for I fear your eyes would be as those of a stranger. You did not have half so much faith in the power of the Enemy when we were living at his doorstep.”

“I meant that you’re a victim of your own stubbornness. Some afflictions are incurable, even here.”

“Don’t let your husband hear you say that. And besides, you’re one to talk.” 

She did smile, then. “I speak from experience.”

“Can you imagine if one of the Valar came up with a cure for stubbornness?”

“We’d refuse.”

“Of course.”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“What is happiness, after all, without the freedom to make yourself miserable?”

The heat of Laurelin was already fading. Below them, smiths and potters gathered up their unsold wares as farmers came to take their spots for the evening market.

“And you wonder why I doubt you’ll have an easy life.” Míriel’s grasses were now in an intricate plait, which she began to adorn with hawthorn flowers. “But I meant what I said earlier. Whatever else – you’re safe. He cannot hurt you here.”

Rúmil extended his arms in the direction of her voice, and clasped her hands. He brought her fingers to his face and traced the thick white scars. “And I thought I was the blind one. It does not matter if I am chained in the pits of Utumno or summoned to the peak of Taniquetil. I am never free of his touch.”

“And I thought we were done with this discussion.”

“Back home, no one would have expected me to hide them.”

Míriel drew her hands away. She could hear a faint chanting from the Minyarin camp. “You survived. You escaped. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s nothing to be proud of, either. Not here.” He continued to worry the scar tissue. “You know what that husband of yours said to me, the other day? He asked why I had to remind him of what we left behind. As if I chose to look like this.”

“To his mind, you did. You could hide your scars and join in the collective delusion that we’re not carrying the past with us.” She pressed her fingers into the soil and felt it compress painfully beneath her nails. “Don’t listen to Finwë. Did you know that he never talks about his parents? His brothers? He will allow no one to speak of them in his presence, even to sing the songs of mourning.”

“Do you think he is happy?”

“He would not allow himself to believe otherwise, if he were not.” She rubs her hands together, but dirt remains caked in the lines of her skin. “If I have children, they will never know the names of grandparents. I think about that, often. Of having the syllables of your name fade from memory. It must be like dying a second time, more slowly.” He reaches out his hands to her, and she helps him stand. The tents below them are strung with lanterns, augmenting the pale silver light. “That’s what I meant, earlier. It would be easy for you to wear a mask. And it would be easy for me to wake up one morning with no memory of my father’s face. Someone needs to keep us from forgetting.”


	12. Nerdanel and Rúmil

The main entrance to the University of Tirion, a few streets from the palace, was carved in porphyry, with intricate bas relief. On the outer doors, facing the square, Ingwë, Finwë, and Elwë knelt before the two trees, as Manwë and Varda held their hands outstretched, open palms signifying the gift of knowledge freely given. The gold and silver gilt had chipped on some of the smaller leaves. Nerdanel thought, as she pushed past them, that she would have made the doors entirely of stone, with veins of topaz for laurelin and moonstone for telperion - lit from behind, of course. They opened into the short entrance hall with low, brightly-painted ceilings, and a second set of doors. These were of dark green marble. It took her a moment to distinguish the delicately carved figures of the early Quendi, and several more to realize that they were engaged in the act of learning to speak.

“Do you like it?”

Nerdanel leapt at the sudden noise, as the doors were swept open. “Master Rúmil! Of course, sir. They are beautiful.”

Rúmil held the door aside and motioned her into the rotunda. “The front entrance was done on the king’s orders, but I commissioned an old friend of mine for these. Completely blind – he had to work entirely by touch. You can’t tell at all from the results, of course, but then again my eyes are not all they used to be.”

“So I can see.” And, seconds later - “I – I swear, I did not mean, I –“

“Cease your stammering.” He steadied Nerdanel’s shoulders with his hands. “Half my face is a bloody ruin, and you, unlike my esteemed colleague, are not blind. Of course you can see it.” 

“You are not insulted?”

“Should I be?” Rúmil arched a thin, grey eyebrow. “If I took offense at every innocuous comment on my personal appearance, I would exist in a state of mortal enmity with half if Tirion.”

“I had thought that you did.”

“ Alright, then, all of Tirion. The point stands. Now tell me why you’ve come. You’re Mahtan’s daughter, aren’t you? You can’t be chasing after your brother, Calarusto is still with his tutors. I’ve heard from him that you’re an artist, too. I can direct you to our books on theory –“

Nerdanel stepped backwards, out from his grip. “Actually, sir, I came for you.”

“As much as I wish you success in your studies, I can promise no concrete assistance. Our specialties – you may have gathered – are somewhat distinct.”

“Oh, no. I meant – with your permission, master, I meant to sculpt you.”

“With flowers in my hair, as is the fashion? Or perhaps after one of the Valar, that’s always popular.” He turned away. “We have already discussed my features, specifically, their rather intense lack of aesthetic appeal. Why would you wish to do this?”

And Nerdanel smiled. “Because you sound as bored as I am by aesthetics. My usual models are, of course, quite attractive. But I prefer to tell a story. There is some beauty in decay.”


	13. Annatar and Celebrimbor

"It is lovely, Tyelperinquar." 

And it was, the chunk of chrysoprase resting on the table between them. The base of the stone had been left uncut and only roughly polished, the upper portion shaped with impossible delicacy into soapy, blue-green waves. 

"I have told you not to call me by that name." 

Annatar removed an golden hand from the jewel, to lay his fingers across his companion’s wrist. “I am as yet unused to this new language. Forgive me, Celebrimbor.” 

"Oh, of course. Always." He leans back, sighs, brushes off the Maia without thinking and tosses his creation between his hands. "I - I meant no insult. But you should not humor me so. I know that it is ugly, lifeless, a toy at best and only worthy of a moment’s though - your words are kindly meant, even I can tell. But I do not require kindness.” 

Celebrimbor slumps forward and Annatar, gently, strokes his forehead, sweeping a strand of hair from his eyes. “Do not say such things, dear one. I have seen Laurelin and Telperion grow from saplings, and walked in the forges of Aulë and the halls of Manwë and Varda. This you know. Would I have sought you out, if your work was not - extraordinary?” 

"You don’t understand, I can see in my head - I see so clearly, what it is meant to look like. Varda may keep her stars. It seems the dictates of my own mind are less easily surpassed." He sits up, suddenly, and flings the little sculpture at the farther wall.

The maia goes to retrieve it. “I'll tell you again, it is beautiful.” 

"Oh, Annatar. You lie so easily. Say that again, and I may cease to trust you."


	14. Azaghâl II

The great halls and caverns of the city of Gabilgathol are lit by hundreds of clear, bright lamps, their oil and smoke wicked away by channels in the stone. They illuminate the veins of crystal in the walls, where the rock has been cut away to display them properly, and are placed in the hollows of lichen gardens or behind curtains of mist. Such things are beautiful, and the Broadbeams (whatever their cousins in the south may say) have an eye for beauty, if not for artifice. 

The private chambers are left in darkness. 

Gâthel learns to read by touch. Each rune is imprinted on her fingers, just as the maze of passageways in the lower levers are written on the soles of her feet. The darkness is safe, and to a daughter of kings, the darkness is sacred. She remembers the first time she saw their letters read by lamplight. The aching attempts to force her mind around the unfamiliar angles, the desire to cover them with her hands. The brief, vertiginous joy of new discovery. 

It is in one of these lower tunnels that she now finds herself. Gâthel has never been this deep, and keeps on hand on the cave wall. She can hear the steady drip of water, a level down, and feel the unexpected movement of cold, clean air. There is a faint glow emanating from the end of the passage. 

It’s a collapsed tunnel, open to the surface, thousands of feet above. The walls are streaked by centuries of rain. The markings on the stone are ancient. Those that do not crumble at her touch are covered with thick, green moss. She presses it, soft and dense, underneath her hands. The stars are dizzyingly bright. She holds grasps the rocks tightly as she attempts to trace their patterns, half-afraid that she will fall into the distant circle of the sky.


	15. Silmarien and Erendis

The air is a cooler, so close to the ocean, and Erendis pulls her cloak a bit tighter. She can feel the grains of sand inside her shoes. Most of the other guests – laughing Andustalië lords and ladies in loose, subtly embroidered robes – have already set aside their sandals by the long tables. Something glints in the surf. The local children have taken to painting pebbles white and silver and cobalt and scattering them on the beach, pretending it is Alqualondë. A knot of Eressëan elves looks on. Although it is difficult to tell at a distance, they appear to be smiling benignly.

As the sun begins to sink behind the Pélori, the assembled worthies gather by the driftwood effigy of Uinen. Erendis stands at the edge of the crowd, shifting her feet so as not to sink into the wet sand, humming as the others sing.

A tall woman in blue silk is standing next to her. There are pearls woven in her hair. She is wearing a large, ancient emerald ring, clearly of elven make. “Is this your first time visiting Andúnië?”

“Yes, Lady Silmarien. And the first time I have seen the ocean.” 

Silmarien’s smile seems genuine enough, but she cannot help but feel that she is being appraised. “Then I hope that you are enjoying your time here, Erendis.”

“I - your city is beautiful, and the hospitality of your subjects is above reproach.” Silmarien does not speak. Was her praise insufficient? “The buildings are so elegant, on could fancy oneself on Eressëa, or even the great lost cities of Beleriand. And I have never seen so trees of such variety, or fragrance – “

Silmarien waves her quiet. “To be sure. Your parents are Beregar and – Núneth, yes? Of Emerië. You are staying with relatives, I suppose.”

“Yes, my lady. To celebrate the festival of Uinen.”

She nods. “And is this festival commonly observed in the Mittalmar?”

The singers have finished the familiar Númenorean songs, in Sindarin, and are beginning the older Lindarin hymns. There is no more laughter. The tone is reverential, and Erendis whispers. “It is among the high men. Or, I should say –“

“Those who have family ties to the Lords of Andúnië.”

“Most others have never even tasted salt water.”

“Their loss.” Silmarien turns towards the waves, clear as dark green glass. “And what do you think of the sea?”

The moonlight on the water is beautiful. She shivers. “I cannot say I love it, my lady.”


	16. Vanimeldë

The theater’s gleaming marble exterior has been carefully designed to mimic the rest of the palace complex, all elegant pillars and stone-lattice windows culminating in a ponderous, gold-capped dome. Restrained, serious. Imposing. Minalbêth’s instructions, written on a scrap of cloth crumpled in her left hand, direct her to the back entrance.

Once she’s inside, it’s easy to understand the building’s somewhat grandiose nickname – the dragon’s hoard. The dome and the surrounding windows are paneled with stained glass. Mosaics depicting singing maidens and masked Avarin dancers almost seem to move in the gold and cobalt light. Even the railing on the service stairs is coated in gold leaf, and carved to resemble twisting vines. Minalbêth tears her eyes away. She’s looking for a wooden door on one of the upper levels. She finds it, and knocks thrice, sharply.

“Come in.”

There is a woman seated behind a large, plain desk. There is an empty chair facing her, and two cabinets holding books and papers. A bay window faces the courtyard. The room is otherwise empty.

The woman at the desk motions for her to sit. “You must be from the clothier’s guild.”

“Yes, ma’am.” This close, Minalbêth can make out the delicate silver thread on the sleeves of her simple white dress. There is a brooch on the label. A star sapphire – six points. “I’m sorry. Your majesty.”

“No need to apologize.” Vanimeldë smiles thinly. “If you would show me your designs?”

“Of course.” The sketches are far more detailed than she would have liked for an ordinary commission. There are pages of embroidery details and fabric samples. She shuffles the papers. “I thought this one, for the Noldorin king in Amân?” The figure in question is draped in a heavy cloth-of-gold outer robe with a jeweled border, layers of colored silk visible at the sleeves and collar.

“Quite …imposing.” Vanimeldë runs a thumb across the rough paper. “I should like to change the color of the accents, from red to blue. Or royal indigo will do quite nicely. And perhaps a six-pointed star motif at the hem? If it’s not too obvious, of course.”

“I can assure you, your majesty, the affect will appear quite subtle from the audience.”

“Hmmmm, yes. Do you have designs for the scheming nobles?”

She does. Nothing so magnificent as the king’s costume, of course. Court robes in the Adûna style, red and purple, black and silver, green and white. Vanimeldë pulls aside the last. “Not this one.”

It’s beautiful, layers and layers of sunset-colored silk, trimmed with pearls. Minalbêth almost allows her professional pride to override her judgment. Almost. “If I may ask why?”

“The House of Andúnië has done nothing to offend me, as of late.”


	17. Finwë and Ñolofinwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in a crossover AU, in which the House of Finwë are the royal family of Westeros. Fëanor is still King Finwë's oldest son, but illegitimate and not in line for the throne.

He enters the small council chamber to the scraping of wood on stone. The assembled lords abandon their business in the haste to rise and incline their heads. Archmaester Rúmil alone remains seated (and he must be excused on grounds of age), scribbling disapprovingly in the margins of a heavy book. 

"Prince Ñolofinwë." The king’s hand, short, balding Velaryon, takes it upon himself to introduce him. A rather superfluous gesture, from a rather superfluous man. He can feel the eyes of the marble sphinxes on his back. 

"My lords. I have invited my son to observe our council. Ñolofinwë - if you would?" The king motions to a chair at his left hand. 

"Thank you, father." Ñolofinwë’s stomach twists. Ought he have addressed him as your majesty? 

Lord Velaryon bobs his head in agreement. “A wise choice, a wise choice. I must commend your foresight, majesty, in seeing to his education in such a manner, against the time he shall - forgive me - sit the iron throne.” 

"The iron throne?" Finwë’s voice is distant, and his gaze unfocused. "Yes. I suppose he must." 

Ñolofinwë clenches his fists.


	18. Marach and Imlach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An AU where the Green-elves do decide to kill the people of Marach

His second son is shaking. Imlach’s wounds are light, but he has had no time to staunch a jagged cut across his brow, and half his face is caked with blood. It reminds Marach, absurdly, of a painted festival dancer. Against it, he eyes are white and wild, and when he speaks, his voice is breathless, quavering. 

"It was dark, they attacked us from the trees - they had arrows, father, with heads made of some metal, harder than bronze, and darker, and we could not see their archers among the leaves and - I am sorry - we panicked, we all did, and they picked us off as we sought cover in the woods, father, I am so sorry." 

Marach catches him as he falls, and holds him. He can feel the hollow, wrenching sobs deep in his own chest. “Where are the survivors?” 

"Malach … when last I saw him, he - he had gathered a great party about him, in the large clearing where the river curves. Where they can at least see their attackers. If there are any others, I …I -"

"You could not have saved them." He lifts his Imlach’s head, and looks into his eyes, until his breathing slows. "We had no warning of the attack, no knowledge of these lands, nowhere safe to hide. Imlach, look at me. There is nothing more you could have done.” 

Imlach shakes his head. “Where will we go now?” 

"We will take shelter in Gabilgathol, as long as they will have us, and then - " He forces the next words from his throat. "Back into the east."


	19. Silmariën and Isilmë

"I know you don’t intend to go to Aunt Mairen’s wedding dressed like that." 

Silmariën turns another page in her book. Isilmë, sighing, steps back into the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” 

"Then why were you trying to sneak out?" Her voice is infuriatingly calm.

"I was not sneaking! And if I was, is it too much to ask, to have just one party, or council meeting, or anything, without listening to disparaging comments on my taste, my comportment, my gown -“ 

"I never said anything about your gown." Silmariën closes the book and sets it on the dressing-table with an audible thump. "Turn around." 

Isilmë does not know if it is possible to turn grudgingly (it occurs to her, along with a sour feeling in her stomach, that Silmariën would), but she is reasonably confident that she has managed it. “If it’s the necklace, I’m not changing it.” 

"Mhmm" 

"It was a gift from grandfather. Even you can’t complain about that." She raises a hand to the clasp, protectively. 

Silmariën bats it away, and twists a lock of Isilmë’s hair around her finger. “Wildflowers? Really?” 

“I think they’re lovely.” 

"So do I." 

"And if you’re going to raise a - wait, what?" Isilmë wheels around to face her.

Silmariën laughs. “I find your flowers perfectly charming, and I’d like to know where you found them. But you can’t wear them to a wedding.” 

"Worried they’ll think I’m more beautiful than you?" 

"Oh, little sister. There’s nothing I could do to help that." 

Isilmë flushes. She spins her bracelets, absently, in her hands. “Why can’t I wear them, then?” 

"Because children plait their hair with flowers, and go about barefoot. Children, Isilmë. Not future queens. No one will ever doubt that you are beautiful. But they will love to pretend that you are soft, and innocent, and brainless. I don’t need to tell you that the issue of the succession is - delicate. Your habit of affecting a certain rural simplicity is no help. To either of us." 

On the lawn beneath the window, an attendant adjust the canopy, under which the marriage will be conducted. Before they can steady it, a post collapses, burying him in white silk embroidered with orange blossoms. 

"This isn’t about me at all, then. It’s because you want the crown." 

“No! I told you, it’s for both of us, I - “

Isilmë breaks into a wide grin. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” 

Silmariën blinks. “You’re happy about this?” 

"Of course! All this time, I thought you were insulting me. You’d be a brilliant queen, Silmariën." 

"You’re not angry, then?" 

"Of course I’m angry. And I’m wearing the flowers. But I would also be honored to be your living propaganda." She bows, theatrically. "I have a gold and garnet clasp that will do nicely. Do you think I could borrow your hair band, the one with the portrait medallions? 

"Of course. And I have something better." Silmariën reached for her jewel-box. For several minutes, she picked through it, leaving a small pile of detailed gold and silver-work, pearls and emeralds and cameos carved from agate and sardonyx. Finally, she selected a simple diamond chain. "Said to have been Elwing’s. I’m not sure I believe that, but it’s always been my favorite piece. Here." With uncharacteristic gentleness, she fixes the jewels in place.


	20. Míriel and Fëanáro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Míriel returns to life.

Míriel returned from the gardens of Lórien a month ago, now, and in all that time, Fëanáro has not once left her side. He walks a few steps behind her, wide-eyed, sometimes reaching out to touch her hand or the hem of her robe. When she sews, he sits at her feet and plays with the scraps of brightly-colored fabric. 

She is not surprised when, on the one day she needs him, he is nowhere to be found. The sewing room is empty, and her samples are untouched. He is not in the library, or the crawlspace inside the walls, or spinning in circles in his stocking-feet on the marble floor of the throne room. He does not come to dinner. Deep in Telperion’s hours, she gives up the chase, and returns to her chambers exhausted. 

He is there, on the bed. Fëanáro always sits with his legs curled up to his chest, clasping his elbows. Tonight, his forehead is pressed against his knees. He rocks back and forth for several minutes after she closes the door. 

"Nárenya?" 

"Ammë!" He sits up, startled. "I’ve been waiting for you." 

Míriel sits next to him, and he buries his face in the fabric of her dress. She grabs a handful of the sleeve, working it between her fingers. “And I’m here now.” 

Fëanáro’s voice is muffled by the dress. “I heard you talking to Atar last night.” 

She gently removes a wad of fabric from his mouth, and begins to stroke his hair. “That’s - I won’t say it’s good. But I’m glad that I don’t have to tell you.” 

"It’s alright. You didn’t tell me the first time you left, either." 

Míriel almost says, the first time I was taken. He still loves his father. It’s a phrase she repeats under her breath a hundred times a day. It’s already lost its meaning. But she is not sure that she does not love Finwë, and it’s enough to keep her the words in her throat. “I’m not going so far this time. Just to stay with your uncle Rúmil. If everything goes well, it will only be for a little while. I promise, I’ll see you every day.” 

He glances at her face. “I was thinking, if …. if I won’t be too much trouble, if I won’t make it harder for you to get better - see, i’ve already packed - Ammë. Will you take me with you?”


	21. Nerdanel and Ñolofinwë

Nerdanel is only rarely required to speak to Ñolofinwë – their business, or the baby, keep her and Fëanáro away from court, and he is rarely seen elsewhere. On those occasions, she makes sure that their conversations are polite, inoffensive, and, above all, brief. Nerdanel is renowned – somewhat unfairly – for her patience, and – much more fitting – for her way with words, but conversations with her half-brother-in-law have a way of turning into conversations about her husband, a subject on which Ñolofinwë has strong opinions, if very little to actually say. 

“And he’s always been like this, you know.”

They are standing on a balcony, outside the larger of the University’s two public reception halls. Within, befuddled Lambengolmor, bullied into a semblance of propriety, are attempting to explain their work to the higher elements of Tirion society. The King is present. Attendance is mandatory. Fëanáro has just stormed off in a huff. Nerdanel nods, noncommittal. He was a regular guest in Mahtan’s forge when Ñolofinwë was still learning to walk. She knows.

“Do you think you could ask him what I did, this time?” If his sense of self-pity had been any more palpable, she could have sculpted it. 

“You can always ask him yourself.”

“If I can find him. If he’ll deign to speak to me. If he can get through a five-minute conversation without thinking of new and subtle methods of insulting me.”

She suppresses a snort. Fëanáro’s insults have been blunt, incisive, tear-inducing and, on one memorable occasion, the cause of an academic feud so intense it occasioned the construction of literal, if ineffective, barricades in the palace library. They are never subtle.

“He’s just so difficult to read.”

And she does laugh, at that. It’s incredible, really, how little other people see. How wonderfully uncomplicated he is. When he flaps his hands and rocks on the balls of his feet and can’t seem to stay in one place, he’s happy – not that his half-brother has had much cause to observe him in such a state. Pressing his temples, shoulders hunched forward, muttering to himself – overwhelmed. And so on, allowing minor variations for grief and anger and the rest. With remarkable consistency, she’s found, since she first solved that particular puzzle. He never dissimulates, and probably wouldn’t know how.

It’s not Ñolofinwë’s fault, given his upbringing, that he assumes everyone is acting. She is less generous towards the rest of the court – but only just. It is difficult to be bitter, given the circumstances. The two of them have a language of their own.


	22. Macalaurë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a request for synesthetic Maglor.

He remembers the harsh, bright, ringing sound of torchlight glinting on steel.  _Oiyámórenna_ _mé-quetamartya íre queluvá tyardalma._ The words have a certain cadence in his father’s voice. Curufinwë has it too, a little, but when the others force them out, colorless and discordant, it tugs at his nerves and leaves him nauseous, empty. He rubs his fingers against his temples and begins to compose a lament, for when they fall. 

 _Sí vandalmë ilyai_ , he’ll tell himself, again and again and again, it binds us, gives us purpose. He hears it in the glimmering of swords and the color and shape of blood staining a funeral shroud woven of fine linen, in the bright, cold patterns of the stars. _Ilar thanyë, ilar melmë, ilar malkazon sammë._ Maedhros and Curufin argue late at night, Celegorm asks him why they have not yet moved to attack Ossiriand. So literal, his brothers. It’s not a series of commands, their oath, it’s music, magic, metaphor. As if there’s anything else with power in this world. 

He’s repeated the words so often as to make them meaningless, their sharp edges worn down as the soft, smooth stones the sea sometimes returns. 


	23. Míriel and Ingwë

The queen looks more tired than she had, when last he was in Tirion. Even Finwë, who delights in playing the calm, controlled Ñoldoran, is visibly concerned. There is the same restless energy in her fingers, though she tries to hide it, and if she still speaks impossibly quickly, mouth and hands blurring with movement - well, she speaks less often. She has no interest in conversation, and never meets his gaze. 

He notices this last when they are at breakfast in one of the temple refectories with an especially striking view of the Ezellohar. It’s a simple meal - the initiates of the order of Nienna lead lives of moderation - but she cannot seem to keep her eyes off her fresh fruit and oaten porridge. Finwë has excused himself, to pay the necessary respects to the Lady of Tears, leaving them alone in the crowded room. 

He waits until they have finished eating to break the silence. “Have you been to visit the temple of Vairë, Míriel?” 

"Hmm?" She glances at him, and then back to her empty plate. 

"It is rather loud, I do apologize. I asked you if you wished to see Vairë’s temple. I know you do not travel often, and I expect you will find the experience most fulfilling." 

"Oh, I heard you the first time." She is looking at him now, or rather the bridge of his nose, with narrowed eyes. Her fingers beat a tattoo on the tabletop. 

The Ñoldor, he reminds himself, have always had a somewhat idiosyncratic notion of propriety. “I only thought, with your particular talents -“ 

Míriel sighs, deeply. “You, and the entire population of Valimar. No, I have not been to Vairë’s temple. No, I do not intend to go to Vairë’s temple. Perhaps I should have an official proclamation made to that effect."

He gasps. This seems to bring her back to herself, she smiles and takes his hands. “I’m sorry, Ingwë. I - I mean no disrespect, to you or your gods. But I have met the Weaver. We suffer from, let’s say, creative differences.” 

Before he can stammer out an apology, or indeed make sense of her statement, she has excused herself and vanished among the sea of grey-robed priests.


	24. Curufin and Caranthir

“They preserve p, t, and k after nasals, of course, as well as intervocalic m. S is unlenited, and I have been able to determine – “

“How they say ‘food supply’, perhaps? ‘We need medicine’? ‘These plants are poisonous’?” Caranthir’s temper is quick - proverbially so - but this is anger born of real desperation, and his tone is more acerbic than enraged. 

Curufin sniffs. “Even you must understand that a thorough comprehension of the salient linguistic features of the Mithrim tongue is essential to our continued cooperation.”

“I’d say not starving to death is pretty fucking essential.”

They have made camp just south of the Firth of Drengist. The location, chosen by Tyelkormo and a small party of scouts, has fresh water and natural shelter from the elements. Lit by strings of lamps, dancing in the wind beneath the countless stars, it is almost beautiful. More to the point, it is entirely barren. Caranthir puts his head in his hands and sighs.

“I’d have expected you to notice, since Atar hasn’t exactly been shy of mentioning it – we’re not in Aman anymore. No Aman, no trees, no light. There has to be something growing here, because by Varda’s anointed ears there are certainly people around to eat it, but we don’t know what, or how, or if it’s going to kill us, and we’re living on what we’ve brought on the ships and their Valardamned handouts!”

“In which case, we should repay the generosity of our hosts by showing the appropriate respect to their language.” He returns to his desk and resumes writing, as if this has settled the question.

“I hope you can eat ink and paper, then.”

Curufin does not deign to respond. They stay like that, the one laying out tables of phonology in neat tengwar script, the other fiddling with a series of ledgers in Quenya shorthand. Neither one of them can say how long it’s been – they are not yet adept at reading the passage of time in the stars – when Curufin breaks the silence.

“If you would accompany Atar and I, on our next diplomatic visit, it is quite probable that you might ask them yourself. Of course, this would necessitate a command of Mithrim – or indeed of Quenya – extending beyond the coarser expletives.

“Curvo?”

He sets down the quill pen. “Yes, Moryo?”

“Shut the fuck up.”


	25. Rúmil and Elemmírë (the elder)

“No.”

“Please, Rúmil. If only you would try it – just for a few minutes –“

“For the last time, you snake-tongued, straw-haired excuse for a scholar, I  _categorically_ refuse.”

Elemmírë leans into a natural shelf in the rock. He is cloaked in clouds of steam rising from glass-green surface of the pools, which almost conceal the droplets of water forming on his chest and shoulders. Rúmil quickly looks away.

“It smells foul. Like rotten eggs.”

“That’s just the sulfur. It’s quite healthy, really.” Elemmírë shakes his head. “They’re only hot springs. Exactly like taking a bath. You like bathing, don’t you? Not that it’s obvious from your personal appearance …”

He crosses his arms over his chest and sniffs. “You’re one to talk.”

“The Minyar have always been somewhat more relaxed in our personal habits than you Tatyar. It shows a lack of interest in the material – and thus tainted – concerns of this world.”

The springs are set in a bare granite shelf, itself enclosed in the dark pines that make up the forest a day’s walk north of Valimar. A species of rust-red lichen clings to the stone. Rúmil is presently engaged in peeling it off, absently, with the fingers of one hand. He returns to the task with renewed purpose, as Elemmírë closes his eyes and sinks further into the warm water, sighing in pleasure. “You really don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Smelling like I’ve been left in the sun too long, O forsaker-of-worldly-comforts.”

A bubble bursts in the center of the pool. Elemmírë snorts. “You’re behaving like one of my younger apprentices,” he says, no hint of guile in his voice.  And splashes Rúmil with a good-sized wave, crested with yellow foam.

Rúmil glowers. “My robes are  _ruined_  now.” He sounds morose, but not surprised, as he yanks the sodden garments over his head. “And you’ve got this stuff all over me.”

 “There’s only one thing to do, then.”

“And that is?”

“Why, to clean it off, of course.” Elemmírë waggles his eyebrows in a manner that would have made even his most experienced students blush for shame.

And Rúmil, muttering obscenities, dips his toes in the water. 


End file.
